


Fire and Flame

by AlleiraDayne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Fluff, Implied Smut, kingdom au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 10:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21427027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: After the death of the King John Winchester, his eldest son, Dean, is expected to fill his seat.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Elizabeth Andersson, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Fire and Flame

**Author's Note:**

> For SPN Fluff Bingo, this fills the square Kingdom AU.

A celebration of life. That’s what Samuel had called it. But to Dean, it felt like anything but. Guests he had never met, alliances, friends, and family alike, poured into the great hall of Winchester Castle dressed in their most elaborate finery to celebrate—or so they said—the life of Johnathan Winchester.

Sure. If a glorified funeral could ever be anything remotely close to a celebration. 

Dean performed his princely duties with all the grace and aplomb with which he had been taught. Hollow pleasantries and introductions ushered in the night of what would surely be the worst of his entire life. As if the last fortnight had not already been the most terrifying.

Johnathan, his father, had been hunting on the lands of his Kingdom as he always did that time of year. Wild boar, pheasant. And maybe a few other unpleasant creatures that hid in the darker reaches of the neighboring forests. When he and his retinue failed to return after four days, Dean himself had set out to find him, and Sam reluctantly followed. When they found the hunting party, one man yet clung to life and told them what had happened. Ravenous wolves.

The most incongruent wave of emotions assaulted him that day as he stared at his father’s lifeless corpse. Unfathomable sorrow at the loss of his father had paired with the ultimate dread of assuming his father’s position as King of Lebanon.

Sam’s hissed whisper interrupted the memory. “What are you doing?”

Dean clenched the hand of one of his father’s—no, one of _his_—vassals. “My apologies, sir, please,” he stuttered as he released his hand.

Sam jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Dean said as he rubbed his hands on his pants and scanned the hall. “Can you take over? I need some fresh air.”

Without waiting he rushed from the entry and down a service hallway for the kitchens. Through the winding tunnel, he burst through the kitchen door, strode through the larder, then burst onto the castle grounds. Cool autumn air filled his lungs as he sucked in a deep breath. Free, for the moment. Free from prying eyes and nagging questions and the insistent pestering of Robert.

“King Winchester?”

Dean squinted in the dark and spotted a swath of deep green fabric in the pale moonlight. As she emerged from the shadows, Elizabeth Andersson called to him again. “My lord, what are you doing out here? Aren’t you supposed to be receiving guests?”

The widowed daughter of his neighboring King, Egan Andersson of Albion, Elizabeth had grown up with Sam and himself. Slow steps crossed the yard as he neared her. “I needed some air. How did you…”

“Did you forget?” she asked as she neared a rack of tourney swords. “You showed me the way. When we were children.”

He remembered. Dear God, but that had been an age ago. “You liked sneaking those tiny cakes.”

The sharp hiss of steel rang across the yard as Elizabeth withdrew a sword from the rack. “Our cooks made nothing as delicious as your tiny cakes, King Winchester.”

“Stop calling me that,” Dean ordered.

Her careful eye examined the length of the sword before grasping it by the blade and holding the handle out to him. “That is what you are, though.”

As Dean turned the sword over in his hand, he cursed under his breath. She was right. But that didn't make it any easier. “How would you feel if your father died and you had to assume his position the minute after they closed his tomb?”

Elizabeth said nothing and instead, set the sword blade tip down in the dirt, leaned against the rack. In smooth flourish, her skirt unfurled from her waist, revealing a pair of men's pants and boots beneath. “I assumed Kingdom if Albion when my husband passed away last year. We had yet to have children. My father insisted I rule, but that I should find a husband soon.”

“Why pants?” Dean asked as he gestured with the sword.

When she hefted her blade again, she crossed the yard to stand to feet shy of him. “Because as a King, my life is valuable. There have been many attempts in the last year. So, I dressed accordingly. Now,” she paused as she widened her stance and held out her sword. “I think we've talked enough.”

“We are not dueling right now.”

He moved for the weapon rack, but the rush of steel through the air activated his instincts. Mere inches from his face, he heaved his sword up to block Elizabeth’s arching strike.

“Excellent reflexes, as always,” she teased.

“Lady Andersson, I beg you—”

She swung again and Dean parried her sweeping slice, the sharp ring of steel echoing through the yard. When she withdrew from him, she said, “Consider it practice. Not a duel. Just a little training. Keep you sharp.”

Her stance widened once more, and it was then that Dean understood. Fine. Two could play at that game. He removed his gloves first, then his tunic, and loosened the ties of his undershirt. With his blade in one hand, he assumed an aggressive stance, ready. Though they were illuminated only by moonlight, he saw the inquisitive look in Elizabeth’s eyes as they darted to the neck of his gaping shirt, then back to his face. He beckoned her with a wave of his hand, and in a flash of metal bathed in pale white light, she rushed him.

The clash of steel rang upon the stone walls of the training yard, blows repeated in a steady cadence. Parry, pivot, strike. Pivot, strike. In that dance, Dean’s memories flourished once more as he recalled the times he and Elizabeth had trained together as children. Though highly suited for one another, she had been married to an archduke of the Andersson’s to satisfy a debt to the Emperor. Dean remembered the day he had learned that. As a young viscount, he had never imagined anything different; he would one day marry Elizabeth and their kingdoms would join as one beneath their Emperor.

Distracted so by the memory, Dean faltered. His toe caught in the dirt as he spun to parry Elizabeth’s flurry of strikes. Unconventional though it was, he reached for Elizabeth’s wrist and guided her blade beneath his arm to dodge her stab, spun into her, and wrapped his arms around her, and pinned her to his chest. Entwined, they breathed their heaving breaths together, and though sweat dripped from her brow, Dean marveled at the sight. He couldn’t fathom how she might look any more beautiful than in that moment, exhausted after such physical exertion.

Her eyes darted to his lips as she licked her own. “A draw, then?”

Dean need not be told twice. His lips landed on hers as he dropped his sword in the dirt, and the thud of hers followed hot on its heels. Tension oozed from his shoulders as Elizabeth returned his affections, her fingers grasping at his back. Divine, miraculous release coursed through his veins as he relinquished the last of his anger, quelled after a fortnight.

When she parted from him, Elizabeth giggled her girlish laugh as she said, “We should tell Robert.”

“We should,” Dean said, lips brushing hers.

She kissed him again, short, but firm. “When?”

Dean held her tighter, one hand slipping into her hair as the other smoothed to the small of her back. Another long kiss stretched time to its thinnest, seemingly stalling just for them. After a breathless gasp, he parted from her and spoke.

“Later.”


End file.
